Their Quiet Before the Storm
by MostlyScrubbed
Summary: A romantic interlude between two of our favorite Sacred Heart regulars reveals something about each of them that they'd hoped to keep secret. Hint o' futureslash. Oneshot.


**A/N: Hi! Short little fic, something to get my brain working in another direction.  
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**I left the character names out on purpose for this one, but I hope by the end of the story the players are obvious. Please review, thank you very much!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Scrubs, but I wish I did.  
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They crashed through the door of the on-call room, awash in the scents of perfume and alcohol, hands clumsy with intoxication and desire. Celebratory cheers and holiday music poured into the room behind them and were snuffed out quietly as the door swung shut, leaving them alone with the sounds of rustling clothing and messy kisses.

He had been driving this train wreck, had pushed her into the room blindly, unseeing eyes screwed shut as they stumbled. As soon as the door closed, she put on the brakes, taking initiative and pushing his back up against the door. She mashed him against the solid surface, hands running along his shoulders, over his neck, through his curls. He made a surprised, appreciative noise at the take-charge attitude and let her have her way for the briefest of moments. Then they were on the move again, turning and twisting, articles of clothing littering the floor as they made their way to the moonlit cot. Her heels were kicked to the wall, his blazer was flung to a chair; her blouse drifted to the floor, his belt was undone and clattered across the linoleum.

They stopped abruptly as her legs came into contact with the cot. She pulled back from him then, staring breathlessly. His hair was wild, his eyes cloudy. _What am I doing? He doesn't want __**me**__._ A sigh escaped her as she closed her eyes briefly. She ran her hand along his cheek, feeling the beginnings of a beard scratch her fingertips. Slowly she lowered herself to the bed, lying on her back, propped up on her elbows in what she hoped was a seductive pose. It couldn't end now. She beckoned him to her.

He hadn't wanted her to look at him, but the sudden shock of coming up against the cot jolted him slightly and gave her the chance to break away from him. Then there she was, staring at him with her drunken, sad blue eyes. He hadn't wanted to see them. She sighed and his heart jumped in his chest. _Thank God, she doesn't want __**me**_, he thought distantly, his eyes closing. He didn't think he could bear the sight of her again, but had to look when he heard her fall upon the bed. He descended upon her.

Their eyes clamped quickly shut against the sight of each other as their needs intensified. She fumbled with his zipper as he lifted her skirts. He smirked against her cheek at the feel of the fabric, mind wandering. His hands roamed, groping her shoulders, her lithe arms, trailing down her sides to her hips. He let his hands rest there as his lips drifted across her neck, covering it in kisses. She shuddered slightly, arching her back, pushing herself against him. Reaching desperately to grab one of his hands, she pressed it against her skin, pulling it upward until it came to her breast. A muffled noise escaped his mouth as he began to move his hand back down her skin, roughly massaging as he went. She groaned slightly in protest, once more taking his hand and placing it squarely where she wanted it. And once again he refused, instead grasping both of her wrists, one in each hand, and planting them hard above her head. He snarled once, forcefully, hoping she would take the hint.

His lips found their way to hers and they continued to kiss. She writhed in his grasp slightly, hands clenching above his. Suddenly he found their fingers intertwined, her soft fingers caressing his, and he sucked in a sharp intake of air as their kiss slowed, deepened. He wanted to look but knew he couldn't. He wanted to relish her taste, but knew he shouldn't. So instead he scowled, knowing she wouldn't see it, and growled softly in the back of his throat.

He pressed against her and she relented. They moved together, silently, each not wanting to disturb the illusion that the other was fabricating. Quiet moans and whimpers escaped occasionally, though not enough to deter them from the ultimate goal of forgetting.

And when they crested they **had** forgotten: his eyes were squeezed shut, one hand clenched around the pillow, the other grasping her smooth shoulder; her eyes wide open, drinking in the moonlight drifting through the window, hands buried in his tangled hair.

They threw their heads back then and called the same name into the cold, silent room, that name echoing for minutes afterward. They still heard it ringing in their ears as they broke apart, embarrassed, as they dressed awkwardly, as they sat on opposite sides of the room, facing each other but not daring to look.

The rumpled bed sat like a lie. A white pillow, its case strangely smooth and unwrinkled, lay askew near the head of the cot. Pale sheets were crumpled and tossed aside, a thin cream blanket balled up near the foot. And the ever-present moonlight shone upon it, casting an ethereal silver glow, highlighting drifting dust motes like fireflies heady with the anticipation of a coming summer squall.

The squall burst into the room then, his tall shadow driving itself between them, dividing the room.

The storm's smile flashed like lightning, eyes glimmering innocently, and he motioned for them to follow him. He turned away, letting the door close behind him. The resulting thunder rolled between the two, shaking their cores.

The woman gazed after him, feeling the breeze picking up.

The man swallowed hard, smelling the promise of rain.


End file.
